I’m no art critic but common sense tells me that when a young artist is banned in their home country, their art is probably pretty damn good. At the very least, someone with a mistaken sense of power fears it. As my granny, a refugee from Hitler’s Germany, used to say, “Banned art is the best art.”

Hazel Dooney’s obsessive narrative comes replete with all the big, brawny, Barthes-ian social, political and sexual schemes currently streaming and steaming the zeitgeist: she talks the talk and walks the walk. She’s hot and hot-headed, the ultimate babe-warrior in the art of war – or is it the war of art? She is a hypnotist-collector; you are a walking antique...